Edge of Darkness
by the lola
Summary: 'She sounds different – her voice isn't the endearing and warm as honey pleasure it used to be, it's cold and calculating and it's ice. He can hear the cut in her voice, with its artificially sugared edges as her low tones encourage people to come closer to hear her speak – to hang off her every word, to allow themselves to be bewildered and allured by her almost inaudible speech'


**Word Count: **1,389

**Challenge/Competition: **The Hunger Games: Fanfic Style Competition

**Prompts: **None

**Warnings: **Depictions of alcohol abuse.

**Disclaimer:** I don't claim to own Harry Potter, it's all JKR's.

**Note: **So a quick bit of background for you all - this is AU, in that the war has continued and Voldemort is winning. I think everything else that happened with them should be able to be pieced together with this story but if not, let me know, and I'll add it up here.

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Blaise slumps onto the bar, bullets of pain ripping through his head and to his shoulders. His body goes limp for a few beats, and he takes some deep breaths to try and steady his head and his thoughts. Everything distorts around him – the people, the glass in his hand, his skin, it doesn't make sense. Nothing makes sense.

And it's the alcohol, he knows it's the alcohol, but it's the only thing he has and he clings to it so desperately. All he wants is to forget, to fade into a dreamless abyss where all of his pain doesn't exist, where there's no death at his hands and no darkness woven under his skin, where he has _her _– the one he almost censors from his thoughts because the alternative is too painful, the one he did this for, the one that got away, although not quite and not really.

He can barely bring himself to look, but he has no choice, that's why he's here; that's why his Dark Mark is searing his skin and he's ignoring it… he just has to know that he made the right decision. But by this point, he's so intoxicated that he can't see straight, and the row of shot glasses presented by the bar tender just hold so many more promises than anything else, and he can hardly resist.

It isn't who he wants to be, he knows that, he detests himself and the person he's warped into. The memories of all of the darkness and the absolute evil are overwhelming, so he sends himself into a drug and alcohol induced haze and hopes to never return (but, he always does). The ghouls of his past follow him into his nightmares, the dreams of _her _stripped away and coated in blackness. And by day, he falls to pieces as his guilty conscience grows stronger.

What drives him so utterly _insane _is how coherent his thoughts are even in the throes of inebriation, that even when he cannot see clearly or hear clearly or be clear about anything at all his thoughts are as clear as crystals. Blaise does not have to try very hard at all to shut out his surroundings, but something catches his ear.

It's her.

She sounds different – her voice isn't the endearing and warm as honey pleasure it used to be, it's cold and calculating and it's ice. He can hear the cut in her voice, with its artificially sugared edges as her low tones encourage people to come closer to hear her speak – to hang off her every word, to allow themselves to be bewildered and allured by her almost inaudible speech. And upon realising this, the drunken cogs turn and he realises; she's close. His body jerks around in an unnatural way and his nerves are in no way prepared for what he sees.

Two seats down, she leans over a greasy looking man, pretending not to notice as he leers down her top as her innocent cerulean eyes wander around the room. The way his leathery face almost lights up at her presence gives away anything his body language attempts to hide – he has fallen for her game, and she is once again successful. He watches her, breath held, as she airily smiles and her head lulls on her shoulders like a rag doll. In her heels she half stumbles and there's no telling what she's on.

And as much as anger and frustration and the overwhelming urge to grab her by the wrist and drag her away bubbles up inside him, this is life now. No one has anything; the war has taken every inch of everyone's life at refusal to side with the Dark Lord. Maybe he should have done it with her, refused him… then he abruptly shakes his head to himself, feeling much too sober all of a sudden, they would have killed her if he hadn't joined them. There was no hope for Daphne and himself, they were always going to lose. Always.

Still, he watches her dead eyes with sad ones of his own, and he finds that he cannot spot a fibre of Daphne within the girl in front of him. She looks the same – sort of – but she's different in her everything and it makes him tremble like he never has. As Daphne leans closer and the man places a sloppy kiss on her neck, Blaise finds his jaw and fists clenching (he's just hers, Blaise and Daphne, she's just his) and then he watches as the thick hand of the man drops several coins into her pocket and she smiles gratefully; although it's way too plastic and way too forced.

The row of shot glasses taunt him from the corner of his eye, promising solace if even for a minute, alluding to a blackout. He sends a trembling hand out to grab a glass full of clear liquid, and tips it down his throat. Finding himself in a coughing fit moments later, her eyes whiz across to his and he watches as realisation floods her eyes. His tremors only increase at the intensity of the gaze she sets upon him, milliseconds before she stumbles away from the guy, heading for the backdoor.

Gathering all his senses, he pushes himself up from the familiarity of the stall and the bar and follows her out the door. It was just supposed to be a check-up, but he wasn't prepared for this, not in a million years. His common sense flies out the window and the reckless part of himself makes itself dominant as he trips out of the door.

As he regains his composure as fully as he can, his head spins horribly and he can't quite steady it. Wildly, his eyes flit around in search of the beautiful blonde. He can't spot her, and panic rises inside him – where is she? Rapidly, he blinks, waiting for the spinning to subside. As everything slows enough for him to see, he finds that she's there, right in front of him. He feels his face light up at her closeness and the normal expression her face now holds.

It's as if memories and what-ifs and harshness and regret and love all circle through the air and envelope them in a moment of tension. Blue eyes lock on brown and it's as if everything is forgotten – it's as if the world is their own and nobody else matters, even if just for those few seconds. They are only half of a person without the other, and that is their greatest flaw. He cannot function without her, and she cannot be without him. The alcohol might be the thing fuelling the moment, but they lean into a kiss at the same time. It's full of passion, searing, like no other kiss they've ever shared – his tongue runs along her chapped lips waiting to be granted entry, her lips part and their tongues fight for dominance as she grabs his back and he tangles his fingers in her hair. She nips at his lip, and he can't help but let out a breathy moan. For minutes upon minutes they pour their tension into each other, and they piece each other together. It's almost like they'd forgotten that they weren't quite whole without each other, and the reality comes crashing down on them with this kiss.

His head stops spinning once again, and the wind blows past him. She's gone. He lifts a trembling hand to his lips – cold and dry. Taking several shaky and frantic breaths, he slides down the rough wall, bracing his head between his hands when he reaches the cold floor. It felt so real, it couldn't be – he thought it was done… he was feeling _ok_. But he was warned, and the hallucinations don't get better – only worse until you're _truly _dark.

But she's gone, and she probably wasn't ever here, and he probably isn't ever going to find her. He needs to stop, but he can't. His sanity depends on her – he needs to know she's okay, even if he isn't, before the insanity that comes with the Dark Mark infects his entire mind and he's just another follower.

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**AN-** I've always played with the idea of Dark Marks manifesting themselves inside the people who have them and tearing away at their sanity, this is just the first time it's fit into a story I've written. So, I hope you guys enjoyed & please don't shut the tab without reviewing!

(oh, and also, I'm writing a story for someone once every two weeks in 2013, so if you'd like a story, let me know your pairings/prompts you'd like and I'll fit you in in the weeks I have free.)

Hope Christmas was good for you all, lots of love! :) x


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